“That’s curious,” said his employer. “I thought you knew every one who was intimate enough to come to my home. What was he like?”
“I didn’t see him full face,” the other admitted, “but he was tall, about your height, but dark in coloring with a rather large nose. It struck me he was a trifle in liquor if I may say so.”
“I don’t remember any one like that,” Warren asserted.
“The gentleman,” said Austin anxious to establish his point, “who bet you ten thousand dollars that his filly could beat your Saint Beau at five furlongs.”
“This is all damned nonsense,” returned Conington Warren a little crossly, “I’m in possession of my full senses now at all events. I made no such wager.”
“I told you he was a crook, Mr. Warren,” cried McWalsh gleefully. “See what he’s trying to put over on you now!”
“Surely, sir,” said the butler anxiously, “you remember asking a gentleman to come into your dressing room?”
“You’re crazy,” his master declared, “I asked nobody. Why should I?”
“He was standing just inside the room as I passed by. He was very merry. He was calling you ‘Connie’ like only your very intimate friends do.”
“And what was I saying?” Warren returned, impressed with the earnestness of one in whom he believed.